Lie To Me
by MizSphinx
Summary: Claire is very good at lying to herself. In her books, denial IS really a river in Egypt. It's just a shame that Sylar begs to differ. Post 'Brave New World.'


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Heroes. Tim Kring does. And as you can see, I'm not Tim Kring.

_Lie To Me_

The first time she sees him is at the diner.

It is six months after that monumental mistake she made jumping 300 feet from a Ferris wheel in front of a television crew. Once they'd got over their initial surprise at the sight of her springing to her feet unharmed, they'd backed away from her like she carried an infectious disease. Thankfully, her father had been prepared: every single one of those reporters and camera men had been 'Haitianed.' He had also made sure to give her the 'I told you so' look.

She'd learnt her lesson. The world just wasn't ready for freaks like her.

So, back to 'normal' it was. She returned to college and took up a part-time job. And was there anything more ordinary than an eighteen year old blond waitress at the local diner?

She has just turned away from old Mr. Cleevey who had been recounting some funny story about a Chihuahua and a trampoline, when she turns to her most recent customer with the biggest smile on her face.

"Hi, what can I—"

"Hello, Claire."

The kettle of coffee she is holding falls to the floor, the sound of breaking glass draws the attention of everyone in the diner.

"Oops, silly me," she smiles nervously around the room, and the diner returns to its usual chatter.

She leaves and returns with a mop, a hand-broom, a bucket of water and a dustpan. Bending to collect the broken pieces barehanded—after all, she is the indestructible girl—she tries to ignore the weightiness of his gaze on the back of her neck.

"Claire, Claire, that's not smart. You'll cut yourself," he reproaches, but as usual, it only sounds like he's taunting her.

"Why are you here, Sylar?" she demands, unable to mask the disgust in her tone.

"It's Gabriel now."

"Gabriel. Sylar. Psychopath. All the same to me." She lifts her head to glare at him momentarily before returning to her work.

She reaches her hand for a large piece of glass then recoils when his hand gets there first.

He places the broken glass into the dustpan. "I've changed, Claire. You may not believe this, or want to believe this, but I'm not the same man I once was. I have a new calling now. A new purpose: I'm a hero."

She sneers. "Like hell you are. You're not a hero, Sylar. You're a murderer. A cold-blooded, soulless _murderer_ destined to live and die alone."

A half-smile plays at his lips. He reaches to touch her cheek and she yanks her body back so fast that the back of her head collides with the edge of a table.

He drops his hand as he stares at her. "I don't want to be alone. Teach me how to not be alone, Claire."

"Never."

She leaves him kneeling on the floor, feeling his gaze on her back as she walks away. When she returns five minutes later to continue her clean-up, he is gone.

**.x.x.**

He returns the next day.

He is sitting at her section so she is forced to serve him.

Her tone is brusque as she holds her pen to her notepad. "What do you want?"

His gaze is direct. "To not be lonely."

She ignores looking at him. "Not on the menu. Try again."

"Your help."

"Try looking for that under the section: when hell freezes over."

"Must you be such a hard-ass, Claire?"

She finally meets his gaze. "And must you be such an evil bastard, Sylar? Oh wait, I forgot: it's just in our nature to be those things." And she moves on to her next customer, uncaring that she has yet to serve him.

**.x.x.**

He returns yet another day.

And so does five 'Specials' with intentions of robbing the diner.

She is so preoccupied with her vexation at Sylar's presence that she fails to notice the suspicious group of men eyeing the cash register and the diner exits. She intentionally takes her time to serve other customers before attending to him, and even though he'd arrived first, she goes to the group of five's table to enquire after their meal choices.

"How about a ham and cheese with a side of you, honey?" says the supposed leader of the gang—a bald man with rows of earrings running up both earlobes, and a thick beard that invited lice. The remaining four laugh boisterously.

She gives them a polite smile. She's met these types before: noisy, aggressive, and intensely sexist. She knows that the best way to handle them is to smile and pretend their jibes or awful come-ons doesn't bother her.

"Five ham and cheese, then?" she asks.

The bald man grabs her left wrist, and it might have been painful, but how can she know? After all, she has lost the ability to feel pain.

He smiles at her. His teeth are a hideous yellow. "And a side of _you_."

She tries to yank her hand away but the bald man's grip is like a steel vice.

"Let me go!" she snarls even as she slams her pen down onto his arm. When the pen makes contact with his flesh, it snaps in half, yet leaving his flesh unmarred.

"Not yet, honey," he says before punching her hard in the gut. The attack is so powerful, he breaks three of her ribs, and a fourth curving to puncture her right lung. He releases her and her body crumples to the floor like a discarded rag-doll.

As her breathing becomes laboured, she can hear the screams and shouts and awful noises as pandemonium ensues. Her vision begins to darken, but she sees his face—Sylar's face—as he bends close. Her hearing is deteriorating, sound slowly closing itself off from her, but she does not mistake his words when he whispers in her ear:

"Don't worry, Claire, I'll save you. I'm a hero."

And he does.

**.x.x.**

Three weeks later, she is still working at the diner when he walks in and sits in her section yet again. For no good reason, her heart begins to race. Ever since that incident with the five Specials and his one-man show of taking them all down, her mind has been on him. She thinks of him at times when she ought not to: at school during lectures, at home doing course work, at nights just before falling asleep.

And she hates it. She hates _him_.

Why did he save her? What is he trying to prove? That he's changed? That he is _good_ now? She doesn't think so and she never will. Snakes could change their skin, but inherently they would forever be deadly. She doesn't need to quote biology to know that Sylar is a bad, bad man, and that no matter what he preaches, he'll forever be marked as a threat in her eyes.

Yet, she cannot deny that a shift of sorts has occurred.

Because, now, whenever she thinks of him, she realises that her ever present disgust for him has dimmed considerably.

And she hates that too.

Resignedly, she goes to his table.

"Hello, Claire." And he smiles that half-smile of his that shows just a bit of his teeth.

She scowls. "What do you want?"

"To see a movie."

"Wrong place," she gives him a bored look. "Stick to the menu."

"With you."

She is so surprised, her mouth hangs open slightly as she stares at him to see whether he's gone insane. Well, more insane than he usually he is.

Did Sylar—_Sylar_—just ask her out?

"No," she says and turns around with the intention of walking away. She's so good at walking away from him that it has become an art for her.

"Claire."

His voice stops her from taking a step forwards.

"Claire," he repeats, eyebrows lifted meaningfully, "I saved your life. I saved all of these people's lives." He motions his hand about the room.

She turns and glares. "So? Why don't you take _them_ to a movie?"

He enunciates each word clearly: "Because I want you."

**.x.x.**

She must have lost her mind.

Just as much as he did when he first began cutting open people's heads and digging around in their brains.

"Okay, take a deep breath," she tells her reflection in the mirror. "It's just a movie. It's not a date. It's. Just. A. Movie."

Gretchen enters the room at that moment and eyes her white V-necked sweater, tight black jeans, and black ankle boots. "Oooh, someone's looking nice. A date?"

"No!" she replies immediately.

Gretchen rolls her eyes. "Okay, no need to shout. I hear ya. Just came for my pen." And she grabs the pen and promptly leaves the room.

She cannot blame Gretchen for beating a hasty retreat. Things between them had turned slightly awkward after she'd told Gretchen she'd rather keep their relationship at 'good friends' five months ago. They continue to share a room, and continue to hang out, but that kiss they'd had is forgotten, and the subject of taking things further is forbidden.

She looks at her watch. It reads 7:32; the movie begins at 8:15. Time for her to go.

On her way to the campus' parking lot where her jeep is parked, a bronze Camry looking none the worse for wear pulls up in front of her, effectively blocking her path. She bends at the waist and sees that the driver is _him_.

"Care for a ride?"

She should tell him: no, I've got a car of my own, thanks. Actually, she should tell him to shove his movie where the sun doesn't shine, but she seems to be running on a heavy supply of I-Is-Loco potion today, so she opens the passenger door and gets in.

**.x.x.**

They decide to watch Shrek 3, and, determined to be the spender of the two, he purchases their drinks and separate bags of popcorn.

Inside, the theatre is so packed, they are forced to sit beside each other, despite her inner resolutions to ensure a seat is between them. She is highly uncomfortable that their shoulders and knees can touch each others' at the slightest movement, and is once more regretful that she agreed on an outing with him. She really has lost her mind, she thinks, to be watching _Shrek_ with this murderer. This sadistic bastard who once cut open her head with his bare hands. She should just leave now while the getting is good…

But then, the movie starts, and for the first time in a long, long while, she laughs: a genuine chuckle at the animated characters' antics. She forgets whom she's with, sharing this experience. Her body relaxes its tense posture, and without realising it, with each laugh, her shoulder brushes against his.

And she's also unaware that as her attention becomes more involved with the movie, his becomes more involved with her.

**.x.x.**

The drive back home to her campus is so painfully silent that when he pulls up on the property, she's already halfway out of the car when die-hard good manners forces her to turn back around and say:

"Err…thanks…for the movie."

She exits the vehicle, takes two steps forwards before she swings around again, hair slapping her in the face. "And…thanks for taking that rib out of my lung so I can breathe again."

He says nothing. He simply leans his forearms on the steering wheel to give her a curious look.

Tapping her index fingers together, she walks backwards as she says: "Well, see you tomorrow."

And thoroughly regretting she'd said those last four words, she turns around and walks as fast as she can away from his car.

**.x.x.**

He doesn't come the next day.

Neither the day after that.

And neither the day after the day after that too.

For the next three weeks, he is absent from her diner, and as much as she denies it, she misses him.

Not in that mushy, lovey-dovey way. _God_, no. It's just…she has become accustomed to seeing him so regularly, she feels somewhat off-kilter at his sudden disappearance. However, she scolds herself that she needs to get over this, that he is unimportant to her, that he's a vile creature; Satan's spawn on earth. And this works for some time. Eventually, she has so forgotten he has ever existed, that she's quite surprised when, another three weeks later, he shows up at her diner.

And does not sit in her section.

**.x.x.**

He sits in Vivian's section again the next day. He completely ignores her.

And boy does it irk her, and so does Vivian's stupid little giggles at every stupid thing he stupidly says.

_Stupid_.

On the third day of his reappearance and his blatant refusal to sit in her section, she just wants to smack him. And Vivian. She _especially_ wants to smack Vivian.

And no, she isn't jealous. Hell no. She just despises that awful horsey laugh of Vivian's. It is highly annoying.

Her? Jealous? Please. The idea is so ridiculous it fits right up there in the Guinness World Book of Records for 'Most Ridiculous Notion Ever:' Claire is jealous of Sylar's growing interest in her co-worker and his growing disinterest in her.

Although, she cannot see why he is so fascinated with Vivian Eldridge, a girl who lives up to the blond stereotype of being horribly obtuse and superficial. Not to mention the fact that Vivian's promiscuity is well-known about these parts…

_Ah, now I see why._ And maybe those fake boobs of Vivian's that were currently being shoved up into his face were an added bonus as well.

How can he be such a typical male, anyway?

At any rate, that isn't any of her damn business...

Because if she makes it her business, it will imply that she cares...

And if she cares, it will mean that Vivian's fawning will make her jealous...

And she _isn't_ jealous.

**.x.x.**

It's day seventeen of his sudden shift of attention—not that she's been keeping counting—and, because the sight of Vivian running her hands through his hair makes her slightly nauseous, she decides to carry out the garbage bags earlier than usual. She's just flung the two half-filled bags into the dumpster when she hears:

"Claire."

Because that voice once permeated her nightmares—and even now, lives in her very non-nightmarish dreams; although dreaming of him in a somewhat sexual way of late is kind of disturbing—her heart lurches sickeningly, and she lets out a startled, frightened gasp as she spins away from the dumpster to face him.

He's standing a few feet away from her, and for the first time, she's impressed with how he looks today. Usually, he's decked out completely in uninspiring black, but today, he decides to wear a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the topmost button undone, and a pair of dark blue jeans, as well as the requisite black boots.

Good God, he _is_ attractive. Oh the horror!

"What are you doing here?" she says in the snidest voice she could muster despite her heart's sudden mission to surpass the 150 mile per hour mark.

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he begins to walk towards her. She backs up as fast as her feet can carry her until she unwittingly slams herself into a wall. Afraid of his nearness, she begins to edge sideways when his hands shoot out, laying palm-flat against the wall, successfully blocking her escape.

She tilts her head up, now aware of how tall he is (or how short she is) and glares at him.

"What the hell do you think you're—"

She doesn't get to finish her sentence. His lips crashing down on hers makes sure of that.

A few seconds pass where she is surprised, once again, by how soft his lips are, (because this is not the first time he's kissed her) and where she thinks that kissing him back might not be such a bad idea, when reason returns to her brain. Simultaneously, she wrenches her head to the side and plants her hands on his chest and gives an almighty shove. He stumbles backwards a few moments before steadying himself, that damnable half-smile usurping his face.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, scrunching her face up to show her absolute disgust for him.

"If you want to preserve your life," she says in icy tones that convince even her, "you'll _never_ do that again."

He shoves his hands into his side pockets and smiles fully.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Someday, you'll be singing a different song."

**.x.x.**

Later that night, she has such an extraordinarily erotic dream of him that the following day, when he shows up and sits in her section, she hides away in the back room pretending to inventory the supplies. She can't possibly face him. With the amount of abilities he's acquired thus far, who knows if mind-reading isn't one of them? And surely, the moment she lay eyes on him, the memory of her dream will be recalled without hesitation, and he'll be able to see all the sordid (sexy) details...

God, strike her dead.

Not like a strike can kill her, anyway. She'll just get right back up and return to agonising over the fact of her growing attraction for...Sylar.

_Sylar_ of all people.

She has really taken this 'fall for a bad man' experience to a whole new level.

"Claire! Stop your damn dilly-dallying and get your ass out here!" demands Mildred, the diner's manager and owner. "We've got hungry customers to feed!"

She has always prided herself on her bravery. Her ability to be headstrong and fearless, running into dangerous situations head-on. But today, she is having a meet-up with her cowardly side and finding that spinelessness isn't as bad as many has made it out to be. Sometimes, one didn't always have to face the truth or even fight it. Avoiding it is just as good too.

"Claire!"

Or not.

Dragging her feet, she heads back to the kitchen area and picks up a tray. Then, feeling like a woman condemned, she heads out into the dining area and finds that he has already left.

_Thank God,_ she thinks, _I don't think I could have faced him._

**.x.x.**

It has been a month since she has last seen him at the diner. And as wont to happen in his absence, her mind is consumed with thoughts of him. Especially at night-time when she dreams of him doing indescribably erotic things to her. She hasn't slept properly in weeks, her slumber usually interrupted by her gasping awake amidst a dreamt orgasm so powerful, she can even feel tendrils of it between her legs in her consciousness.

Because she can find no explanation for these dreams—she refuses to believe the tiny voice that claims she is 'attracted' to him—she grows suspicious that he has a hand to play in this. She wonders whether he has somehow attained Matt Parkman's power of pushing thoughts and dreams, and is using that power to provoke her.

Well, mission accomplished.

She is furious with him, wanting desperately to hurt him in some way, yet frustrated because she doesn't know where he is. Her bad mood follows her like a plague, and once, when Vivian makes the mistake of whispering, "She really needs to get laid," she rips into poor Vivian with such intensity, the poor girl runs off crying.

She apologises despite not feeling very sorry.

Then one day, two months since she last saw him, she overhears Vivian chatting with Emily. She is about to ignore them when she hears his name.

"…you know, that hot guy with the eyebrows. Use to sit at Claire's until he got tired of that bitch…"

"Oh, him! The one with the sexy ass? Lord, what I would do to have him—"

"Well, you can't 'cause he's mine, okay? Anyway, he's been working at Jimmy's—"

And that's all she needs to hear.

**.x.x.**

Jimmy's—properly named Jimmy's Automobile Store—is a shop that caters to various automobile needs. It makes most of its money from car repair since it is the only store within 100 miles to offer such services. The garage is a sprawling cement structure that holds at least 50 vehicles (possibly more) that needs attending to, and many of the young men in the area works there as budding mechanics.

Additionally, Jimmy's is located across the street, parallel to the diner; a three-minute (if so much) walk away.

All along, the bastard has been right under her nose.

Rage, white-hot and demanding, blossoms within her, blinds her. Untying her apron and flinging it on the cash register desk where she has been sorting bills, she leaves the diner despite Mildred's holler that her shift isn't over yet.

She marches across the street and onto the property of Jimmy's, then enters the gloomy area of the garage. Ignoring the acrid, nauseating smell of car oil, she looks around until she sees a pair of bended knees sticking out from beneath a silver BMW. Intuition tells her that it's him.

She walks over, bends at the waist, and yanks hard on the exposed end of the creeper on which he lies. Effortlessly, he is wheeled out, his startled face—smudged here and there with oil—is revealed.

She folds her arms beneath her breasts. "Hello, Sylar."

His surprised gaze settles into a smug look. "Claire."

A sweet sliver runs up her spine. Countless times he's called her name, but it's the first time her brain registers the husky quality in the way he says it. Has it always been this way or is he pushing thoughts again?

"Look, just stop it, okay?" she demands.

He sits up and leans his forearms on his knees, a wrench dangling loosely from his left hand. He looks up at her. "Stop what?"

"I'm not in the mood for your stupid games, Sylar!" she spits. "Stop pushing those...those _dreams_."

He cocks his head to the side and surveys her curiously. "What kind of dreams?"

She couldn't stop the blush even if she tried. "You're really sick, you know that? How old are you, anyway? Forty?"

He smiles. "Actually, I just turned thirty-two."

Her spirit of righteous indignation flags, and her scathing retort of 'you're old enough to be my father' dies on her tongue. Still, her anger persists.

"I don't care how old you are," she retorts. "Just know that if you keep this up I swear I'll—"

He stands, towering over her easily. "You'll what?"

She immediately takes a step back.

"What will you do to me? What _can_ you do to me, Claire?" And, to emphasise his point, he casually flicks his wrist and her hands lift involuntarily above her head and bind together at the wrists by an invisible chain. Struggle is futile as she finds her entire body unable to move in any direction. Rendered immobile, all of her hate and anger for him return tenfold and is concentrated in the baleful gaze she directs at his smiling face.

He stands before her, their bodies centimetres apart. Lifting his right hand, he tucks her hair slowly behind her left ear, and then does the same with her right ear. He then begins to leisurely smooth his palms down over her ribcage, her waist, to settle on her hips. She could feel all ten of his fingers burning through her clothing: both thumbs on her hip bones, his remaining eight fingers curved around to graze the upper part of her bottom.

She begins to blush harder. A dream in which they are in this similar position, only pressed up against a wall and both of them very naked comes to her mind. He notices this and smiles even more.

She struggles to speak. "Take your hands off of me!"

"What did you dream?" he says, his breath warm on her face and smelling not unpleasantly of cinnamon.

"Let me go!"

"Was the dream about me?"

"No!"

He shivers. "Lie. It was. Did you like the dream?"

"Hell no!"

He shivers again. "Lie. You did."

She realises, belatedly, that he can tell when she's lying or not and opts to avoid giving him straight answers.

"Tell me, Claire, tell me what you dreamt," he urges, kneading his fingers into her flesh. She would have squirmed if she could've moved.

"Why don't you stop this, Sylar?" she says bitterly. "We both know you're behind it all. You killed Matt Parkman and took his power and now you're using it for some sick game to torture me with. I thought you said you had changed."

He says nothing, only gives her a long, long look before he suddenly releases her physically and telekinetically.

"I didn't kill Matt Parkman. He's a fat-ass and a waste of my time."

And he turns and walks away.

**.x.x.**

That night, her dreams are less sensual but Sylar is still the star of the show. In it, she is running through the streets of New York as an icy curtain of rain drenches her to the bone. She calls out for her father, for her mother, for Peter...anybody, but the brick and cement walls only throw her voice this way and that. Nobody hears her, and if they do, they don't come running to meet her.

She stands in the middle of Times Square, feeling lost and terribly alone as the rain chills her body. She tells herself to be brave, to be realistic, there has to be someone out there. But deep down, she knows there isn't. After all, she cannot die, but everybody else can. She cannot feel pain, but everybody else can. They've all moved on, she knows, all of them who weren't cursed with immortality.

She feels so hopeless, standing there amidst the howling wind and the rat-tat of the rain on the asphalt. What is she to do? Where is she to go? What is left for her in this place where no-one exists but herself?

A pair of arms envelops her from behind, and her heart lurches with surprise and gratitude.

She is not alone.

"_Claire_."

She turns in his arms, and instead of the encompassing loathing and anger and revulsion she experiences whenever in his presence, there is only this unusual feeling of rightness. Like this is where they both belong. Here. Together. Their cold, wet bodies pressed up so close as though longing to converge and become one entity.

When he bends his head to kiss her, this time, she accepts him willingly.

"I don't want to be alone," her dream-self whispers against his lips.

"You won't be if I'm here with you," he says.

And her dream-self believes him.

And when she jerks awake, her real-self does so too.

**.x.x. **

The next day, she takes deep breaths to muster up courage, then walks over to Jimmy's.

"Here," she holds out a Styrofoam plate covered in foil paper and a bottle of orange juice. "On the house." This is not true. She bought the ham and cheese sandwich special and drink with her own money.

He does not take her offerings right away, only continues to wipe his oily hands in his even oilier rag as he stares at her. Discomforted by his prolonged staring, she shakes the goods impatiently.

She scowls. "You want it or not?"

"Why?"

"Look, I'm just trying to do something nice, okay? Is that so hard to believe?"

She is about to retract her hands, turn around and walk away when he takes the wrapped sandwich and orange juice.

"Thanks." And he turns his back to her.

Dismissed.

**.x.x.**

The following days, she continues to bring him something to eat, bought from her own hard earned cash. A voice tries to question her actions but she studiously ignores it as much as she can. She tells herself that she is simply doing a kind favour for a…not a friend, no, 'friend' is too simple yet too generous…for someone she knows. Despite knowing he works, and that he can afford a meal on his own, she derives some weird kind of satisfaction from…giving him food.

Days turn into weeks and they continue this routine. They scarcely say much at first, but eventually, little conversations develop. She is still wary of him, but she cannot help being intrigued by him, or contain the little frissons of excitement and arousal whenever he gives her those signature half-smiles. At nights, she sometimes dreams of him, and when her dreams inevitably delves into the erotic, she doesn't mind one bit.

_He's a murderer! He once cut open your head!_ _He's a bad, bad man!_ A voice screams in her head, but day by day, that voice gets dimmer and dimmer. Instead, whilst at work or in class or in her room, she speculates what it would be like to truly kiss him or how those strong-looking shoulders of his would feel beneath her palms. Sometimes, she even vaguely wonders if she'll ever have the courage to touch him.

She is undeniably attracted to Sylar.

Then, one day, as she is turning to leave after delivering the usual sandwich and drink, he astonishes her by grabbing her hand and spinning her around to face him. Her heart begins to beat a little faster when his hands relocate to her hips, bringing her body into sweet proximity with his own. A stubborn part of her protests that she shove him away, that she demand he release her, and that she never speak to him again, but she has been secretly craving his touch these past few days, and is hard-pressed to tell him to stop doing so.

His voice takes on a low, husky tone that sends delicious tingles along her back and upper arms. "Claire, are you afraid of being alone?"

Her answer is immediate. "No."

"Lie. You are. Tell me you don't want me in your life, and I'll be gone."

She licks her lips nervously. "I…I don't want you in my life."

He closes his eyes for a moment. "Lie. You do. Tell me you want me to let you go, and I will."

Her cheeks colour slightly. She tells herself she doesn't need to answer his questions but finds herself unable to stop. "I want you to let me go."

He caresses the back of her head with his right hand, his thumb teasing along the side of her jaw. "Lie. You don't. Tell me that you'd mind if I kissed you right now, and I won't."

She bites the corner of her bottom lip for a second, studying him as he studies her. A tiny bit of rebellion sparks within her before dying as quickly as it had come.

"I don't want you to kiss me," she says, gazing up at him boldly.

He smirks at her. "Sweetheart, you are an awful, _awful_ liar."

And he lowers his head and kisses her.

And, this time, she kisses him back.

**.x.x.**

**AN:** Hi! Well, this was my first Heroes fanfic, so I beg you to please be gentle if/when reviewing my characterisation of Sylar and Claire. I do hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. Feedback—good or bad—is more than welcomed! :)


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